


Eye to Eye / House Call

by irisbleufic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brother-Sister Relationships, Brotherhood, Brothers, Family, Gen, M/M, Protectiveness, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-01
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 06:29:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>She's wearing the same stubborn expression her brother always does.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LJ in May of 2011.

She's wearing the same stubborn expression as her brother always does, right down to the slight upward tilt of her chin and the stubborn set of her jaw. They've even got the same eyes. She favors their father, though: fine cheekbones and a cutting smile. 

Where her brother is soft, she's sharp.

“What's the meaning of this, then?” Harry Watson asks. “You'd be the older brother, wouldn't you? The kidnapper. Madder than a box of frogs, if you ask me, never mind what John says about—”

“Tell me,” replies Mycroft, reaching for the decanter he's prepared, “what _does_ our dear Dr. Watson say about Sherlock? To you, I mean. It varies from party to party.”

“ _This_ party doesn't kiss and tell, thanks,” says Harry. She eyes the decanter suspiciously, watches as Mycroft pours two tumblers of the stuff. “Listen, I'm not...”

“Of course,” Mycroft says, handing her a glass. “It's squash. Vulgar, perhaps, but I have it on excellent authority that you're fond of blackcurrant.”

Harry lets slip a laugh that's at least half relieved. “Whose authority might that be?”

“My own,” Mycroft says, flipping open the folder on his desk. “Shall we get started?”

Harry just shrugs and takes a sip of squash. She grimaces as if it's too sweet.

“Happy childhood,” Mycroft begins, handing Harry a glossy, faded photograph. “No need to trawl through the details; you know them already. The way things _were_.” 

Harry frowns at the image, her eyes flicking up to Mycroft's. A challenge.

“First day of school,” she explains. “Auntie Helen made us those dreadful...well, I didn't know what they were. Still don't. Neck-things. Mum insisted we wear them so as not to hurt her feelings. I couldn't bring myself to face the camera, but John—he gave Mum that _look_ , the one that says everything's bollocks. You've probably seen it.”

“Repeatedly,” Mycroft reassures her. “Would you like to see what else I have here? University essays, utility bills, dental records? He's been a busy boy, our John.”

Harry chews the inside of her cheek and takes a long swig of her drink.

“What are you trying to do? Make sure he's who he says he is?”

Mycroft chuckles. “I _know_ who your brother is. What I'd like to know is who _you_ are.”

“If you can dig up that much on my brother, you can dig up even more on me.”

“Yes,” says Mycroft, thoughtful. “You live your life in the public eye. Unapologetically.”

Harry grimaces. “My employer told me off for the lovers' spat in public. I hardly think I need your disapproval, too. It reflected badly on me, on the company, and it hurt...”

“Do you miss her, I wonder?”

Harry jerks as if to fling her glass at him, but keeps herself in check.

“You interfering bastard. Of _course_ I do.”

Mycroft lets his lips twitch in spite of himself.

“And do you worry about your brother?”

“God in heaven,” Harry mutters, leaning forward. “ _Constantly_.”

“That's all I needed to know, Ms. Watson. I'm glad we understand each other.”

“Speak for yourself,” Harry sighs, holding out her glass. “Might as well finish the lot.”

Mycroft refills their glasses, watching intently as Harry reaches for the folder.

“There are some things you'll never find, not with all your spying,” she says, rifling through until she discovers another photograph. It's John and Sherlock conversing at a crime scene—last week, to be precise, a string of robberies gone wrong, three dead before they'd got to the bottom of it—heads bent close, one of Sherlock's hands caught mid-gesture, the other cradling John's chin. “Want to know what this is about?”

Mycroft permits himself a slow, calculating smile.

“Enlighten me,” he says, and Harry grins right back.


	2. House Call

"Where's our boy wonder?" Harry asked, leaning on the door-frame as John peered out at her. He had the same look of displeasure on his face that their mum used to get when one (or both) of them had done something particularly outrageous. 

In this case, all Harry had done was _show up_.

"At Bart's," said John. "Something to do with a corpse and acid burns."

Harry sighed, shouldering her way inside. "You bagged yourself a real charmer."

"Piss off," John said, starting up the stairs with a slight limp.

 _Wonder what that's about_ , thought Harry, frowning, and followed him.

"What'll it be?" asked John, once they'd reached the kitchen. "Tea? Hair of the dog?"

"Sober," Harry reminded him, her fingers fidgeting on the keys of the PDA concealed in her pocket. "For seven weeks now." She prided herself on always keeping up to speed on technology, but the device that Mycroft had given her cost at least twice as much as her own current model and had functions she'd never even heard of.

 _Photographs of all appliances_ , Mycroft had said. _If you can manage that_.

 _Why me?_ Harry had asked. _Why not just send in your team of spooks?_

 _Because Sherlock would know_ , he'd said, smiling thinly.

 _Won't he know anyway?_ Harry had asked. _I'm a one-woman herd of elephants_.

_On the contrary: all he'll know is that you paid John a visit. Is that so unusual?_

_You're one clever fuck_ , Harry had told him, grinning in spite of herself.

 _It's my business to be discreet_ , Mycroft had said, dripping with false modesty.

Harry glanced in the bin while John was busy rummaging for mugs in the cupboard. There was an empty Twinings box and a handful of tea-bag wrappers. She took out the PDA and pretended to be checking her messages. 

"Bully for you," John said, popping on the kettle. "Coffee?"

"I'm in more of a tea mood," she said, clicking keys till the camera blinked on.

"Tough luck," John said, wrestling a coffee filter into place. "We're out."

"Would you mind popping down to grab some?" Harry asked, making a big show of taking a seat. "Clara's been on my back about caffeine. I drink too much coffee."

"You and Sherlock both," John said. "Fine, I'll be back in a tick."

Harry stayed put at the table until she heard the door slam downstairs.

She tackled the microwave first, taking snapshots of the exterior from three different angles, plus the interior, which she instantly regretted. The walls and glass tray were splattered with substances that couldn't possibly be of edible origin, and she didn't bother taking a closer look at the beaker left mouldering near the back.

 _I'll need precise model specifications, as well as indication of how hazardous the conditions within_ , Mycroft had told her. Sadly, she was to apply these standards to more than just the microwave. She'd known her brother's flatmate-turned-lover was eccentric, but a public health nuisance? She wasn't sure how she felt about that.

The oven was in surprisingly good nick: bit grotty, but, as far as she could determine, that was because they'd been using it to bake frozen pizzas. She photographed it from hob to grill, frowning when one of the dials came off in her hand.

 _You're going to replace everything?_ she'd asked Mycroft, incredulous.

 _As much of it as I deem necessary_ , he'd confirmed gravely.

External views of the toaster were easy, but she didn't dare move any of the wooden sticks protruding from the slots or shove down one of the levers to test functionality. Neither electrocution, nor burning down the flat was on her list of priorities for this mission (although Sherlock was well on the way to accomplishing the latter).

 _Any advice?_ she'd asked Mycroft on her way out of his office.

 _Approach the refrigerator with caution_ , he'd said.

Harry took a deep breath and yanked it open; a blast of cold, stale air hit her face.

She opened her eyes in response to the sharp scent of garlic, perplexed. There was some left-over pasta in a plastic take-away container, plus what looked like a half-eaten square of lasagna in another. She scanned the shelves, almost disappointed in what she saw. Two jars of homemade jam, blackberry and gooseberry, in Molly Hooper's sickeningly perfect handwriting. Half a bottle of semi-skimmed milk. A small egg carton, which _actually contained eggs_. She caught one of the fruit drawers with her index finger and coaxed it open. Apples. Pears. A loaf of whole-grain bread.

"Hungry?" said John, standing in the doorway, and Harry leapt out of her skin.

"Yeah," she said, shoving the drawer shut. "Peckish. Do you fancy lunch?"

John set his shopping bag on the table. "Tea and sandwiches?"

"Great," Harry said, resuming her seat at the table, heart pounding in sheer relief.

Mycroft was going to be _ever_ so disappointed.


End file.
